


Under Night In Bar

by MeltyRum



Category: Durarara!!, Gangsta. (Anime & Manga), Under Night In-Birth (Video Game), VA-11 Hall-A (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:35:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23313244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MeltyRum/pseuds/MeltyRum
Summary: Under Night characters at VA-11 HALL-A.
Relationships: Jill Stingray/Celty Sturluson
Kudos: 3
Collections: Boku no Hero Academia x Persona





	Under Night In Bar

It wasn’t a bad crowd, for a weekday. About average, maybe. Miss Julianne—he called her this in his head because he knew she wouldn’t like it, and she couldn’t stop him because he’d _seen_ her employment application and knew it was the _truth_ —must have been in a good mood, though, since she had taken on the lion’s share of the customers smoothly and without complaint. This was how it usually went, though: she was a little bit faster when it came to the mixing and tending, but this was just as well, since Gordeau had plenty of paperwork to take care of in his office—the room he had just vacated, in fact.

This was good timing, too, as he saw a familiar face wander in. She glanced once behind her as she stepped inside, as though to make sure she wasn’t closing the door on anyone, before she made her way to the bar, immediately surprising him by strolling to the far, solitary end of the serving counter, where there was one seat that was sat facing the rest of the bar itself, rather than the shelves of liquor behind the bartenders—opposite the inside corner of the bar where Jill tended to serve.

“Evening, Orie,” he started, sliding a coaster across the table toward her. “What can I get you? Don’t usually see you here on a school night. Special occasion?”

She shrugged and gave him an innocent smile. “I was just lucky enough to be in the area, and a drink sounded good. Could I have a… a whiskey?” she asked, somewhat distractedly.

He raised one eyebrow—the one she could see—at her, having never served her anything besides a cocktail. Gordeau wasn’t one to argue with his customers’ orders, but he figured he should give her just one more chance to reconsider: “You mean like… the whole bottle?”

Orie laughed a little. “No—just a glass. A small one.” She held her hand palm-down above the table at the approximate height of a lowball glass.

“Okay. Whiskey, then. With ice?” he asked, still not convinced she new what she was ordering.

She nodded. “Please.”

Seeing that he had no choice, Gordeau did as she asked, joining whiskey to ice before putting the glass in front of her for judgment. “I don’t think even Jason has just ordered whiskey straight, but… my memory’s not the best, I’ll admit. Not that it’s a bad order, or anything.”

Orie just gave him a sweet smile, lifting her glass only an inch or two off the bar before she set it back down just a little bit too hard. Gordeau followed her gaze to the door, where another visitor was entering. It was just another of Julianne’s regulars, however, so he wasn’t surprised to watch the man go and claim his spot.

When he turned back to his customer, Gordeau saw Orie lifting her glass once again, tentatively trying some of her drink, the glass shifting ever-so-slightly as she sampled it.

“How is it?”

She blinked at the sudden interrogation. “Oh! It’s very…” she trailed off, apparently abandoning politeness as a small smile spread on her face. “It’s awful. I can see why Jason wouldn’t order it.” She laughed a little, though, before trying to force a little more down. When this still proved unsatisfactory, she settled for taking one of the ice cubes into her mouth, instead.

“If something possessed you to try something like this, it must have been a rough day at the orphanage,” he joked.

“Nothing like that,” she insisted, looking rather amused. “Just wanted something different, is all. How long _has_ Jason been coming to this bar, Gordeau?”

That was a good question, albeit unexpected. He crossed his arms and turned his eyes toward the ceiling for a moment. “Well, years—the same as you. But honestly, he was coming in here ever since he was a teenager. So a fair bit longer than you’ve been visiting, that’s for sure.”

She only gave him a blank look for a minute, as though trying to make sure she had heard him correctly. “You let teenagers in here?”

Between the stern-teacher look on her faceand the cross hanging around her neck, he tried not to feel too guilty. “I mean… I didn’t sell him any alcohol, obviously. And it was all legal—he had supervision from the Handymen.” He heard the creaking of the entry door again, but Gordeau didn’t bother turning to look, instead carefully watching the way her gaze quickly darted over to the doorway and back to her drink.

“Right—the Handymen,” she began, considering them in silence for a moment as she tried to help herself to more of the drink, looking as though she were trying to get it into her body while allowing as little contact between tongue and spirit as she could manage; it was an odd dance that was not new to Gordeau. “The Handymen are essentially criminals for hire, aren’t they?”

“I think it’s just a subset of their work, but… maybe. Probably. I don’t know too many of the details, myself. Good guys, though! Believe it or not.”

“It’s a wonder Jason became a hero at all, going from Father Hanekoma to people like them—even if they’re not so bad, like you say.” She smiled thinly, this time sniffing her drink, perhaps now trying to coat her palate with the burn so that she would have a harder time noticing the flavor. “But he did become a hero, didn’t he? He turned out pretty well.”

Gordeau chuckled fondly. “Much as I hate to admit it—yeah, he did.”

“Why do you think that is, exactly, Gordeau? Was he just born like that?”

Gordeau blinked, wondering where she was going with this. “To be honest, you should probably know better than I do, Orie. But sure, it could just be the way he is. Born to the right pair of parents, making him genetically disposed to taking care of himself… but not _too_ much care.” He grinned. “Or maybe he just likes hitting people—being a hero would let you do that. Honestly, it makes me kind of jealous sometimes,” he added, with a sigh.

“Me, too,” she replied, nodding as her fingers stroked away at the condensation on her glass. “It must be satisfying. But not everyone can do that sort of thing. I think he could do it only because he wants to do what’s _right…_ but also because he’s angry. He wants his parents, just liked the rest of us do.”

“‘The rest of you’,” he echoed. “You mean orphans.”

This time, Orie shook her head. “I do, but I’m talking about everyone. Anyone would want their parents—barring certain circumstances, obviously.” She paused, thinking on her words. “But I suppose it goes without saying that orphans would want them the most. But it’s not just that. Orphans—people—they need… more. But I’m not sure what that is,” she admitted, smiling a little sadly.

Gordeau stroked his chin, watching her for a moment and wondering why she was telling him this. Because he knew Jason? Because he was _the bartender_? While always friendly enough, he and Orie had never been particularly close; he hadn’t known her to be the type that required someone to lend their ear—or if she _did_ require that, she seemed like the type who would simply take care of that at church; convenient enough, when you’re there all day anyway. At the very least, he could tell by the liquid level in her glass that she was far from being intoxicated, regardless of the proof of this evening’s chosen drink. Not rambling, then… maybe.

“More, huh?” he started. “I guess so. Are you talking about God, or something?”

To his surprise, she shook her head again. “No. Like I said, I don’t know what it is. But it’s not God, or a place to live, or…” she trailed off, thinking for a minute. “Actually—you’ll laugh at me—but I think what it might be is ‘family’.”

He didn’t laugh, but he _did_ smile, even if he knew better than to think she was saying that out of some simple naivete. “You think that’s what made Jason special? Having a family? Having one of those isn’t so unusual, you know.”

“It is for an orphan,” she pointed out, as he knew she would.

“Right, but would you say you and Jason didn’t have a family?”

Orie held her tongue for a minute, having a sip of her drink before coming up with an answer. “Jason and I… we _did_ , but it’s different. It may not have been for that long, but we had each other. And Father Hanekoma. As for Jason, he may have moved onto the Handymen, while I stayed home—but it’s not always adequate. Any child at the New Hope orphanage can rely on Father Hanekoma, yet… that’s not enough, either—not for everyone. Perhaps what I meant to say was that people require the _right_ family, and not all of them are lucky enough to find it.”

“You make it sound as though the orphanage isn’t good enough.”

Orie answered him with a weak smile. “To be blunt, it isn’t.”

Gordeau was too surprised to muster an answer; he’d never heard her speak poorly of the church _or_ the orphanage.

She continued: “I believe in Father Hanekoma’s work—and mine, too. And the work of everyone else there. But… as silly as it sounds—even if I exist as a counterexample—an orphanage just isn’t a good place for a child to grow up. They need real caretakers, parents, and siblings—whether foster or genuine. I was lucky enough to be Jason’s ‘sister’; I’m not sure I could say the same about any other child I grew up with, give or take one or two of them… and I _certainly_ couldn’t make that claim on any of the children I’m taking care of now.” She sighed again, sounding more frustrated than before. “I can give them a place to sleep, food, God—if that’s what they want—and even love, when I have some to spare… but it’s obvious that it’s not what they need. Maybe the rest of the kids would be better off like Jason—leaving the church and finding their own family, just like he did.”

He frowned a bit, neither wanting to agree nor disagree with her. It was true, after all, that he couldn’t picture living in an orphanage as some sort of ideal childhood, but he wouldn’t have guessed that her work weighed on her to this degree. At the same time, though, he couldn’t exactly imagine a life on the streets as being any _more_ ideal. Orie had been right when she said that Jason was special—that things had worked out for him. But there were probably plenty of other kids on the street right now, sick and dying.

It would probably rude to point that out, though.

“What about you?” he asked. “The orphanage obviously worked out for someone. I’m talking about you, by the way. And you’re probably not the only one, Orie. You people save lives. Jason only made it because he had what it took—whatever that might be—and it probably didn’t hurt that he had that time with you there. It could be pure chance, for all we know; one wrong turn, and he would’ve been some thug or cutpurse, rather than a hero.”

He watched her face for a moment, seeing by its consternation that she apparently didn’t find his words very comforting. Well… he tried. It’s not as though this sort of thing was unusual: customers didn’t always come to the bar looking for comfort so much as they wanted a place to drink and be sad, since it wasn’t socially acceptable to be sad anywhere else.

She looked up at the sound of a customer exiting through the front door, and here he knew for _sure_ that something else was eating her.

“Can’t help but notice you’ve been keeping a close eye on the door, Orie. You alright? Not expecting someone, are you?”

She shook her head, not at all looking embarrassed at having been found out. “No. Not really. I did meet someone, but I don’t think he’ll come in. Just in case, though…” she shrugged, having some more of her drink now that the door was securely shut.

“Met someone? Seems like it’s bugging you, though. Want to talk about it?” Another typical bartender question. Sometimes people said yes, other times no. Both were just as well to him.

“Maybe,” she said, queasily trying to finish the rest of her whiskey on one big swig, which was immediately followed by her slamming down the glass and letting out a series of pathetic little noises—something in between coughing and gagging—as she tried to suffer through the alcohol burn, having to reach for a napkin and cover her mouth. Gordeau had seen the type, and knew it wasn’t a choke, so there wasn’t much he could do. It took Orie a few moments—punctuated with deep breaths— before she could continue: “But maybe I’ll have something else to… chase that down.”

He smiled. “A mojito, maybe?”

“No. Let’s see,” she started, clearing her throat and wiping her lips once more. “It would have been a year or two ago, but do you remember what you served Bernadetta—the first time she and I came? She said it was good.”

Gordeau tried not to smile too wide. “Sure, no problem—but you have to say the name.”

“I am not going to say the name,” Orie replied firmly, sternly, but a smile still appeared on her face.

“Then I guess you’re not getting one, since I don’t know what to make without the name.”

She let out a sigh of exaggerated exasperation. “And yet, you could make it for her when all she wanted was something sweet. Fine. How about… a Screwdriver? That’s fairly innocent.”

He nodded with resignation, going to fetch the vodka. “Yeah, the classic might be. You’d be surprised at some of its evolutions, though—my favorite being ‘Slow Comfortable Screw Up Against a Fuzzy Pink Wall’.”

Orie laughed. It brought him some relief.

“That’s not _real_!” she protested.

“Oh, but it is, my sweet little Orie. And there’s even worse out there, if you take the time to look.” He smirked, whipping up her cocktail in no time at all—this was one of the easiest ones, of course. “There you go,” he said, as he set the glass down before her. “Feel like talking now?”

“Maybe,” she repeated, trying some of the drink and letting out a small, silent sigh of satisfaction—and relief, perhaps?—at the relative ease with which this one went down.

Gordeau decided to give her some time, pulling aside her whiskey glass so that he could take care of the cleaning. He had a feeling that it would come out sooner or later, at this rate. While they’d never really gone beyond “friend of a friend” status at best, and “customer and barkeep” at worst, he knew Orie well enough to say that she didn’t get rattled very often, so it was hard not to be at least a _touch_ curious about whatever must be on her mind tonight. Some customers came in like this every night, after all, but when the steady ones came in, sat down, and kept their eyes down on the bar… that was the sort of situation at which a bartender might raise his eyebrows and wonder.

“I met someone scary on the way here,” Orie admitted, slowly spinning her glass on its coaster. “A boy—high school aged, maybe. He said a few threatening things, like how he might like to ‘play’ with me—all with a… _smile_ on his face. And after he said that, he showed me his quirk. It was like… knives—but only the blades; I saw eight of them, hovering just behind his back, as if they were ready to be launched. Or… ‘launched’ isn’t really the right word. They looked more like snakes, coiled and ready to strike.” She looked a little embarrassed by her descriptions, as if she couldn’t quite do it justice.

Gordeau tried to keep things calm. “This was just earlier tonight? But you’re here now, so… you must have gotten through it alright, yeah?”

She nodded. “I was scared, so I decided to show him my quirk, too. After a while, his smile went away—I suppose he doesn’t want to ‘play’ if he doesn’t think he can win—and he dismissed his quirk. It looked like the blades folded back up against him, like sharp, metallic little spider legs. When he turned to go, though, they weren’t there anymore—no damage to his clothes, or anything. His quirk must be like mine.” She smiled weakly, helping herself to another sip of her cocktail.

Gordeau rubbed his chin for a second, trying to remember whatever Orie’s quirk might be. “You know… I don’t think I’ve ever even seen it—your quirk, I mean. Assumed you might be quirkless. What is it?”

Orie paused, eyes tilting up toward the ceiling as she searched for the words. “I’m not sure how to describe it, but it’s like… a knight. My own personal one.”

As he watched her describe it, something faded into place just behind her. It remained only for an instant, but he could see why she had a difficult time describing it—and also why she chose to settle on calling it a “knight”, with what _might_ be described as armor, particularly the strange blast-shield sort of helmet that adorned the top of its head. Her (he _thought_ it must be a her, given its frankly luxurious wave of golden hair) “feet” looked more like upturned chess pieces—like white bishops—with odd points extending toward the floor, but not quite touching. The most knightly thing about it, however, was the ridiculously sized broadsword it carried.

“Huh,” he started with a wry smile, scratching his hair and searching for the right reaction as he did his best to recall it. “Well, I’m not exactly the type to go attacking innocent people on the street, these days—but if I was, then I guess I’d probably reconsider looking for trouble, too, if I saw something like that.”

She returned his smile, ostensibly not all that displeased to have been able to intimidate him. “What about you, Gordeau? I didn’t think you had one, either.”

“Ah. Well, mine’s not quite as curious, but…” He raised his right hand to demonstrate, moving his hand this way and that to show that it was perfectly normal—until his fingertips took on a violet verve, spectral claws forming on his fingers and beginning to extend—somewhat grotesquely—several inches in length. Just as Orie had done, however, he dismissed these claws nearly as soon as they had appeared. “A little mean-looking, right? They pretty much work just how you’d expect. They can get quite a bit longer, though. Maybe about as long as the bar, on a really good day,” he added with a chuckle.

Orie seemed amused, too. “I see. All these emitter types. You, me, that boy… they’re all a little bit similar.”

“Right—there was something I wanted to ask about that guy. He wanted to play with you—fight you, I guess—for… what? Just for fun?”

“I think it’s because I happened to see who he was with. He came out of a building just as I was coming through—maybe he didn’t see me when he came out, since I was taking a darker part of the street… and I was at a fair distance from him. He was checking that the coast was clear, I think, when I saw someone—she looked a lot like Mayor Liber—leave after him. She didn’t stay long, though—rather, she left immediately; I didn’t think much of it until he approached me, since… he must have known that I had seen her. Perhaps that bothered him, for some reason.”

“The mayor, huh?” he asked, barely believing it. “That stupid…” he trailed off, giving Orie a nervous look as he remembered what kind of company was in. “That stupid, no-good, tax-avoiding cheat… probably. Anyway, it’s a little funny that you mention this guy with the blades—what you said about them being like spider legs jogged my memory, I think. I’ve had people asking me about him for a while now, but I never got any details myself. All just pretty bad rumors, but you got to see the man himself, huh? And you got away pretty easy. He’s probably all talk.”

Orie quickly and easily finished her drink, giving him a smile as she set the glass back down. “He certainly might be, but there is _something_ about him—his eyes, I think. Something tells me that the spider blades aren’t just for show. But as long as I never see him again, maybe I won’t have to worry about it; I’ll be careful, though.”

“Yeah, I hope so,” Gordeau agreed, although there was something else he heard in her voice that bothered him. _Confidence_ , maybe? “You almost sound like you think you could take him in a fight, if that’s what it came to.”

“I don’t know about _that_ ,” she said, her smile turning a shade embarrassed, as though she’d been caught. “But I’m curious about how well I would do, if I ever got the opportunity to defend myself.”

“Heh. It’s telling that you call it an ‘opportunity’, Orie. Don’t go looking for fights, alright?”

“You don’t have to tell me that, Gordeau,” she replied, grinning as she rose to her feet and retrieved a wallet from her bag, leaving an appropriate amount of cash by her glass. “Thank you for the drinks. And… for listening.”

He shrugged. “Hey, it’s my job—both of those. Have a good night, Orie.”

“You too,” she returned, giving him a little wave as she made for the door.

He chuckled to himself as he started to clean up, wondering if she would really be able to stay out of trouble. It was unfortunate that her issues were not the kind that he could help with, but he’d had enough years on the job to know that sometimes listening was all it took. It was just one of those things that came with being human: being able to dump everything off your chest and get another human to look at it all with you… it was one of those things which reminded you that you were still alive. And even if she was secretly looking for fights, Gordeau could tell that Orie wasn’t the type to take a loss so easily. She struck him as… stubborn.

Gordeau laughed a little. She was a lot like her brother, that way.


End file.
